


red right hand

by thunderylee



Category: KAT-TUN (Band), Kanjani8 (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, Dark fic, Imagined Violence, M/M, Spanking, anarchic hand syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2019-01-16 03:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12334548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Taguchi’s hand has a mind of its own, and that mind is far, far down in the gutter.





	red right hand

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck. written for je-devilorangel 2013 with ayamehadouken.

It hits him right after practice finishes. Taguchi excuses himself, ducking into the nearest washroom. He feels sweaty and clammy, completely unlike the way he normally feels after a good afternoon of exercise, and it seems he’s gotten something on his hand.

He turns the cold tap on full blast and leans down, splashing his face and neck. It helps, marginally, and he turns his attention to his hands. Soap doesn’t seem to make it any less sticky, and his palms feel itchy. Surely it’s not some sort of reaction to the soap.

The water is still flowing into the sink when the door creaks open. Taguchi barely hears it; he’s too busy staring at his hands.

“Hey, Junno, hey.” He blinks when the voice is accompanied by the shaking of his arm. Koki’s leaning against the counter, sizing him up. His brow is wrinkled and he’s pouting a little. “You haven’t been partaking of recreational drugs without me, have you?”

“ _No_ ,” he says, wondering how long he’s been staring at his hands.

“Okay,” Koki replies, giving Taguchi an odd look but then turning to his reflection. Taguchi still isn’t used to his longer, straighter hair, and it appears that Koki isn’t either as he peers at himself curiously. “You know I’m here if you need to talk, right?”

“Yeah, of course.” Taguchi flashes him a grin, and Koki must buy it because he just smiles back and leaves the washroom, hair flowing behind him.

Taguchi’s right arm lifts on its own, hand squeezing the air so hard that his knuckles turn white, and he rushes to shake out of it. It takes a lot of effort, but eventually he calms down enough to function, though for the rest of the day he’s plagued with visions of yanking Koki’s hair so hard that his scalp burns.

*

The next time it happens, he’s really glad he’s alone. It’s like he’s lost control over himself, or at least his hand, which has been tingling this entire time. Nothing even happened to make it snap, just suddenly Taguchi was popping the button of his own pants and shoving his hand down between his legs, stroking himself to full hardness in seconds and not stopping.

It’s like someone else is doing it, forcefully and with no chance of lasting, a desperate jerk of his wrist back and forth while he stands confused. Thankfully his couch is close by, and no sooner has he flopped down onto it than he’s arching, snapping his own hips up into the touch as he quickly brings himself to the brink, then over. Except that his hand doesn’t stop, continuing even after he’s spent, making him whine as it gets too sensitive.

He’s very nearly in tears when his hand finally finishes, and Taguchi shakily makes his way to his bedroom. He shucks his clothes off in the dark and crawls under the covers, bewildered by what’s happening. No one would actually believe him, would they?

He slips into slumber after tossing and turning for what seems like hours, and when he wakes it all seems like a dream. A very strange dream, but a dream nonetheless. Taguchi forgets all about the incident; he doesn’t have any more tingling in his hand.

*

A couple of weeks pass without any more issues from Taguchi’s hand. He doesn’t even sleep on it awkwardly like he had the first times it had acted on its own. That’s probably how it even started tingling in the first place, pinched nerves or something equally mundane.

It’s a nice weekend, not terribly hot nor cold, and they all have several days off in a row. It’s been months since Taguchi’s gotten to go on any survival game outings with Nakamaru; hopefully his aim hasn’t gotten rusty.

Taguchi ignores the itch in his palm; he’s too busy checking his gear to be alarmed. Even when his hand automatically latches onto the gun, he’s not too worried about it. It’s not like it’s  _real_. And it’s just Nakamaru, who probably has more of a hard-on for this than Taguchi himself does.

“You okay?” Nakamaru asks now, pulling Taguchi from his thoughts as he straps on his own gear.

Taguchi’s hand twitches, but Taguchi keeps it still enough. He’s gotten pretty good at subduing the urge, though he’s concerned that his hand wants to point a gun at Nakamaru’s head. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Then let’s do this,” Nakamaru declares, instantly setting off for his starting point. There’s something exhilarating about the wait, his nerves sparking as time starts and he swifty creeps around, using Nakamaru’s predictability against him as he finds him right away.

He shoots on sight, getting him right in the back of his camo, but he doesn’t stop after the first shot. That is, his hand doesn’t stop. He manages to direct his aim down at the ground, but there have already been three shots decorating Nakamaru’s back and two more in the ground.

“What the hell, Taguchi?” Nakamaru yells. “Is your gun defective or something?”

Taguchi doesn’t answer, slipping behind a tree to reload. He had used almost an entire clip on the first tag!

“I think my trigger got stuck,” Taguchi finally replies. His grip is still tight on the gun, and his finger keeps twitching toward the trigger. His hand is still tingling, and he’s afraid he’ll unload this clip into Nakamaru too.

He lets out a shaky breath, leaning his head against the tree. Maybe if he takes deep breaths or counts slowly to ten that will lessen the urge. His eyes are closed in concentration, and he isn’t aware that Nakamaru is standing in front of him until he’s being shaken by one shoulder.

Taguchi’s hand jerks up, aiming directly at Nakamaru’s chest. He brings his other hand up in a bid to push the barrel toward the ground, gritting his teeth with the effort. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the way Nakamaru is staring at him, as if he’s torn between concern or fear.

Fear seems to win out, because Nakamaru stares at him with a mostly unreadable expression. “Maybe we should stop for today,” he says slowly, and Taguchi blinks because usually he has to  _drag_  Nakamaru away from the survival grounds. “Give me your gun.”

It’s just a flash, not even a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to terrify Taguchi into prying the fingers of his right hand off of the rifle. Whatever this is, whatever’s controlling his right hand, doesn’t like Nakamaru’s tone at  _all_. The flash shows Taguchi’s fingers around his throat, tight enough to have Nakamaru shaking, the feeling of him gulping against Taguchi’s palm all too real.

“Something up?” Nakamaru asks carefully, like he can see into Taguchi’s mind and he’s wary of getting too close, as he very well should be. “You look pissed off and scared at the same time.”

That’s a good way to describe it, Taguchi thinks, but all he says is, “I guess I have some aggression to get out.”

Nakamaru’s smile is so unexpected that it makes Taguchi forget all about choking him. “I know just the thing.”

*

Sweat pours from Taguchi’s forehead and back as he punches the sandbag, over and over without stopping, so fast that Ueda’s eyebrows rise up into his short hairline.

“Did you get dumped or something?” Ueda asks bluntly. “I’ve never seen you so angry.”

“I’m not—” Taguchi pauses to breathe, letting his right hand get another eight hits in before trying again. “I’m not angry.”

“You’re going to sprain your wrist.” Ueda stands behind him and grabs him by both arms, using what feels like all of his strength to still his right arm. “At least switch sides every so often.”

“Okay,” Taguchi says, willing his arm to relax. It seems like it won’t cooperate, but at the last second his arm drops to his side. Ueda lets go of him and steps back.

“Go on. Let’s see what else you’ve got.”

Taguchi rolls his shoulders back and switches his stance. Surprisingly his right arm is still obeying him, and he gets a few left jabs in before it begins to tingle again. He fights it, feeling Ueda’s eyes on him.

For a few more punches, Taguchi keeps his right fist out of the way, held at the ready. When he can’t stand it any more, he switches again. Ueda doesn’t say anything as he paces around Taguchi and the punching bag. He keeps watching, lips turned down in a thoughtful frown.

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” Ueda looks vaguely uncomfortable as he asks, and Taguchi pauses.

“I just…” he trails off and sighs, wondering if he should just come clean. Out of all of them, Ueda would be the most likely to understand. But then again, Ueda looks like he’s ready to turn Taguchi over to the men in the white coats any second now, so maybe he ought to keep this to himself for awhile longer. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Ueda says, drawing out the word like he doesn’t believe Taguchi for one second, though he doesn’t seem keen on pressing for details. “You can come over and use this whenever you want, but you have to be careful not to lose control like that. You can seriously damage your wrist if you don’t do it properly.”

Taguchi thinks Ueda hits the nail on the head with his choice of wording, but something about his tone gets under Taguchi’s skin. He’s the boxing expert, of course, but Taguchi doesn’t like how Ueda is talking down to him. Or rather, his hand doesn’t like it.

It takes all of his willpower not to punch Ueda in the face, visions of how satisfying it would feel along with the shiner he’d leave, and Taguchi starts to wonder if he really is a danger to others as well as himself. Maybe he should check into the mental health clinic after all.

Then Ueda smiles and Taguchi’s hand tingles, like it’s gone numb, because Taguchi can still imagine the bruise on Ueda’s pretty face.

*

Taguchi is plagued by visions of harming the rest of his band mates. He tosses and turns every night, his right hand tingling and flexing as he tries to blot out all of the ways it wants to hurt them.

He’s sipping quietly on a coffee at the next group meeting. The others are just as quiet as he is, the early morning too bright. Taguchi rubs at his eyes, attempting to scrub the sleep, as well as the urges, from them.

“You look like shit.” Kame’s voice is blunt as he makes his declaration, and Taguchi half-heartedly shrugs. “Have you been playing games all night again?”

“Yeah,” Taguchi lies smoothly, because it’s easier than trying to think of a way to tell the truth.

Kame seems to let it go, but Taguchi nearly trips over him when he starts to leave and doesn’t look down far enough. “Did you actually think you can bullshit me?”

Sighing, Taguchi grabs his right wrist behind his back. Kame’s staring up at him with hard eyes and it’s the only way he can keep his hand from lashing out. “You really don’t want to know.”

“Junno, you’ve been acting weird for weeks,” Kame says firmly. “If there’s something going on that could affect the group, I need to know about it.”

Strong, prioritized Kame. The youngest of the group, yet its biggest protector. Taguchi’s right hand finds his wallet chain and he has to push away images of whipping Kame with it, seeing the link marks on his beautiful face.

“There isn’t.” Taguchi holds Kame’s gaze until he finally nods and turns away, leaving for his next engagement. As Kame passes through the door, Taguchi can feel his fingernails digging deep impressions into his palm, and he can’t help but wonder if he’s about to draw blood.

*

Still a little shaken by Kame’s astuteness, Taguchi heads back to his apartment. He’s got a few days’ downtime, and his big plans involve trying not to envision his right hand doing bodily harm.

At least, that’s what he’s got in mind until he bumps into Ohkura on his way out of the office. He immediately turns around to fall in step with Taguchi, grinning as he nudges him with his elbow.

“This is perfect timing, Junno. I’m done for the day, and it looks like you are too. You’re going to entertain me this evening.” Ohkura smiles serenely, striding ahead of Taguchi. His eyes fall to Ohkura’s ass as he laughingly agrees. His hand twitches as he takes in the view.

“Only if you buy me dinner first,” Taguchi jokes, and Ohkura laughs as he steers them to the closest takeout joint. He makes it until they’re back at Taguchi’s place before his vision shifts again, only this time he’s the one shoving food into Ohkura’s mouth until he gags beautifully.

“You’re giving me an interesting look right now,” Ohkura comments around his food. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Actually, yes.” Taguchi figures this has gone on long enough and blurts out the entire story from the first second he noticed something weird with his hand. The entire time he’s speaking, the limb in question starts shaking uncontrollably, like it knows it’s being talked about and doesn’t like it one bit. “I’m seriously worried that I might hurt someone,” he finally says, staring hard at Ohkura like that will stop him from bolting at the disturbing revelation.

Ohkura just chews thoughtfully; apparently it will take much more than being alone with a potential serial killer to get him to move. “Have you tried to give into its demands? Not like the visions, of course, but there are other things you can do to alleviate aggression…”

“Ueda let me use his punching bag,” Taguchi tells him. “I nearly broke my wrist by punching it so much.”

“I can’t imagine that would be very satisfying,” Ohkura says, then swallows his mouthful and sighs. “It sounds to me like you are having control issues, to the point where your hand has dissociated itself with your brain. It’s a psychological thing.”

Taguchi lifts an eyebrow.

“I’ve seen a lot of psycho movies,” Ohkura explains. “They’re Yoko’s favorite. At any rate, letting it get what it wants will likely tone down the urgency, eventually severing the dissociation.”

“But how do I let it get what it wants?” Taguchi asks desperately. Ohkura’s diagnosis seems a little far-fetched, but at this point he’ll grasp to whatever he can to find a solution to his problem. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Some of us don’t mind being hurt,” Ohkura says calmly, then lifts his eyes to meet Taguchi’s, his offer clear and pointed.

It takes a moment for the implications of Ohkura’s words to sink in, but when they do, Taguchi’s fingers twitch, as if his hand is realizing them too. His mouth goes dry as he envisions Ohkura before him on his hands and knees, his ass on display, reddened handprints a stark contrast against pale skin.

“ _Yes_ ,” Taguchi blurts, both of his hands seemingly out of his control as he grips the edge of the table.

Ohkura smiles slowly, finishing his food just as slowly. “Good. We need to wait thirty minutes before participating in any activities.” At Taguchi’s affronted noise he adds, “The anticipation will be good for you.”

Taguchi slumps back in his seat, groaning. His hand clenches of its own accord, and for the first time in weeks he agrees with it. “Are there rules?” he finally asks.

“Just two.” Ohkura leans forward as if he’s telling Taguchi a secret. “One—no marks, since it  _is_  summer, and two—well, how about just no marks? I trust you.”

Taguchi thinks about pink handprints on flesh and clears his throat. “What about marks where they can’t be seen?”

Now it’s Ohkura’s turn to lift an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, you do have a rather nice ass,” Taguchi tells him, and Ohkura smirks. “My hand quite likes the idea of smacking it.”

“In that case, marks are fine,” Ohkura says, his eyes growing dark at the thought. “The harder the better.”

“Really,” Taguchi says flatly, making a fist as he imagines something he can actually do for once.

“Really.”

Taguchi looks pointedly at the clock on his wall; he can tell Ohkura notices by the soft chuckle. Then there’s a hand on top of his, weighing down the twitching and urgency, and it calms him a little.

“If you get too out of control, I have handcuffs,” Ohkura says seriously, and Taguchi finds himself comforted and aroused by the idea.

All he does is nod, though, trying to relax as the minutes pass according to Ohkura’s requirement. For fuck’s sake, they were going to have sex, not go swimming, but Taguchi just leans back against his couch and tries to focus on whatever’s on TV, his fingers naturally lacing with Ohkura’s even if his nerves are still jumpy.

About ten minutes later, Ohkura leans over and presses his lips to the back of Taguchi’s jaw. “Ready to get started?”

Taguchi’s fingers squeeze Ohkura’s in reply, and he stands and pulls him to his feet. For once, his right hand’s grip is almost normal. There’s a nervous thrill in the pit of his stomach as he pulls Ohkura to the bedroom.

Once they’re standing next to Taguchi’s bed, the two of them look at each other. “Do your worst,” Ohkura says, his words mostly directed at Taguchi’s hand.

That’s all it takes to shatter the last of Taguchi’s nerves, and he startles himself with the feral way his hand snatches at the buttons of Ohkura’s shirt. The bottom two pop off, though Ohkura says nothing about it. He simply keeps his own hands to himself, eyes following every movement of Taguchi’s right hand.

Before he knows it, Taguchi’s scattered all of Ohkura’s clothes across the room. It’s as if he’s watching from outside himself as his hand presses against the center of Ohkura’s chest, shoving him backwards onto the bed.

That seems to take Ohkura’s breath away, which has Taguchi pausing for as long as it takes Ohkura to grab onto his collar and pull him down on top of him, fusing their mouths together and stretching out underneath him. It’s not often that Taguchi can line up with someone so perfectly, head and waist and knees in the same place without any bending on his part, and he takes advantage of it by curling Ohkura’s body around his and grabbing his ass so hard that his knuckles strain.

“Junno,” Ohkura gasps, and Taguchi’s name tastes even nicer on his tongue, hips rolling up toward Taguchi’s. “Is this helping?”

“Actually, yes,” Taguchi replies, amazed at the way his hand seems to calm down, at least until he moves to pull it away. “Maybe your psychobabble was right after all.”

“Good, because we’re just getting started.” Ohkura’s hands—calm and still—pull up Taguchi’s shirt, shoving it over his head and to the side before touching Taguchi’s torso all over, dispersing Taguchi’s energy to singe in the spots where Ohkura’s fingers trail along his skin. He brushes a nipple and Taguchi moans, grinding hard against Ohkura who twists it on purpose now, drinking down Taguchi’s noises as they get louder and more primal.

“You actually gonna do anything?” Ohkura gasps as he pulls away to catch his breath. Taguchi’s hand digs its fingernails into his hip in response to the taunt evident in his voice, but the way he moans deep in his throat appeases it.

Taguchi doesn’t answer; he’s too busy rocking his hips against Ohkura’s for words. After a few minutes of mindless thrusts Taguchi’s hand burns, more intensely than it has ever since it developed its own mind, and he reluctantly rolls over to urge Ohkura to do the same.

He has to pause once Ohkura is on his hands and knees. His back arches as Taguchi drags his fingers down his spine, and he nearly purrs at the touch.

“As hard as you can,” Ohkura murmurs over his shoulder, and Taguchi nods. He lifts his arm, the familiar feeling of holding back prickling at his nerves, but this time he doesn’t have to. A slap resounds throughout the room as his hand makes contact with the flesh of Ohkura’s ass, followed by a low growl as Ohkura arches and shivers out the pain. “ _Shit_ , that’s good.”

“Yeah?” Taguchi asks, his nerves prickling for a different reason now, and somehow the two combine together to form a fierce surge of arousal as he smacks Ohkura again. “You like that?”

“Fuck yes,” Ohkura spits out, curling his fingers into Taguchi’s bedspread. “Is it working?”

Taguchi watches the skin where he’d made contact turn a bright shade of hooker lipstick pink and notices the intensity in his hand dulling down. “I think it is.”

“Because I’m a fucking genius,” Ohkura says, scoffing out a laugh before sticking his ass up even more. “Don’t stop, dammit.”

Groaning in anticipation, Taguchi shucks his pants and grabs the lube from his nightstand, smacking Ohkura’s ass on impulse when the other man looks over his shoulder to see what’s taking so long. “I hope it’s okay that I fuck you.”

Ohkura moans as Taguchi slides slick fingers between his legs. “I would kill you if you didn’t.”

Taguchi spreads his fingers apart in response, twisting them almost violently before slowing his hand a bit. It doesn’t seem to mind holding back such a tiny amount, or maybe it doesn’t care as long as it gets to do what it’s been itching for. He manages to work three fingers in, and is seriously contemplating a fourth when Ohkura groans.

“I am going to grow old and die if you don’t hurry up, Junno.” Ohkura gasps and presses back onto his fingers, and Taguchi reluctantly pulls them away to slick himself. His right hand squeezes Ohkura’s hip as he lines himself up and slides in.

Ohkura is blazing hot around him, and it nearly takes his breath away to stay still for a moment. His hand twitches, almost questioningly, and he’s surprised when Ohkura presses back against him, arching his back as if he were a cat in heat.

Taguchi redoubles his thrusts, pulling out almost all of the way before slamming back in. Ohkura grunts with each movement, writhing beneath Taguchi when his hand slides up his spine to settle at the nape of his neck. Sweat beads at his brow, and it’s all he can do to string words together. “Get yourself off. I wanna feel you.”

Ohkura whines but complies, sending fire-hot arousal surging through Taguchi’s veins when he tightens even more. Taguchi feels his hand twitch again, but doesn’t think twice about bringing it down for a hard smack while he’s pounding into Ohkura. It earns a yelp and a shudder from Ohkura, but he keeps pushing back so Taguchi doesn’t feel the need to stop.

The handprint on Ohkura’s ass practically glows, and Taguchi thinks he’s going to have a rough time sitting down for a few days. He runs his fingers over the raised skin, as gently as he can manage with his right hand, feeling Ohkura tremble beneath his touch.

“Gonna come,” Ohkura gets out, and Taguchi moans as he fucks him even harder. It brings him closer to the edge himself, and Ohkura’s barely groaned out his orgasm before Taguchi falls victim to his own.

Once he’s recovered his breath, Taguchi pulls out, flopping to the side. His hand is numb, mostly from how hard he’d been smacking Ohkura, but he’s okay with that. As long as it isn’t trying to act on its own accord, he’s happy.

Beside him, Ohkura is just as breathless. He eyes Taguchi before speaking softly. “Any time you need help Junno, feel free to come to me.” His eyes slip shut as Taguchi nods.


End file.
